


Experience the War

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Drugging Via Potions, Dubious Consent, Immobilisation as a Kink, Infidelity, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulations, Masochism, Past Abuse, Rough Sex, general dark subject matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus wants to know more about the second wizarding war, and though Draco is reluctant, they strike a bargain. But Albus is unprepared for the knowledge that sometimes it is our darkest desires that frighten and arouse us most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experience the War

Draco walked down the hallway, a mug of tea clutched in one hand and a small, weathered tome in the other. The spine on the leather-bound book read _Dark Enchantments of the Far East by Griswold H. Weatherby_. Absorbed in the text, Draco walked right past the broad-shouldered boy who had been waiting nearly a half hour for his first chance to meet the new Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House.

Draco wound through the classroom, past rows of empty cauldrons littered on desktops, and silently disappeared into the adjoining office.

Albus Potter started, bright green eyes blinking dully behind thick-rimmed glasses. He had bought a new pair just for this meeting—a dark brown designer set, with square frames and a small yellow lightening bolt etched onto each side. They had cost nearly half of his yearly allowance, but he had thought they would have been worth the hefty price tag if it meant Draco Malfoy would notice them. When he didn't, Albus couldn't help but feel a bit crushed.

"Excuse me, Professor Malfoy?" Albus called, already on his feet, clumsily fumbling with his satchel to throw it over his shoulder. Tangled up in its leather strap, his clumsiness cost him a few seconds too many; before he could move another step forward, Draco's office door slammed shut.

Sighing, Albus gritted his teeth. Well, his father had told him it wouldn't be easy if he wanted to speak to Draco, but he hadn't expected Draco not to even acknowledge his existence. Still, Albus wasn't one to give up. He wasn't a prefect in Slytherin House for nothing, after all. He had the necessary patience and persistence it would take to reach Draco; he knew that much. It was just a matter of convincing Draco now that he was worth the time for an interview.

Knocking at Draco's office door, Albus waited for a response from inside and took a moment to pat his starched shirt down. He had left his Slytherin robes back in the dormitory, but the green and silver tie that was tight at his collar made it all too clear in which house he had been assigned, a reminder of something they had in common. He just hoped he looked proper enough in half dress to make a good impression on Draco, because what he needed to ask was something he was sure wouldn't be easily given—every little bit of confidence would help.

The door swung open a moment later, and a soft, drawling voice called to him. "Come in, but make it quick—I'm busy."

Albus entered quietly and opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it when he saw Draco Malfoy standing not five feet from him. Draco's robes were off, and he wore a modest but tight button-up and slacks that were slender against his long legs and narrow hips. Looking at him, Albus felt for the first time enthralled with a man twice his age in the same way he grew hot-cheeked when he looked at pictures of Rodolpho Riggings, the star Quidditch Captain on the Falmouth Falcons. Albus felt distantly light-headed and wished to Merlin he'd thought to take a Calming Draught before he decided to wander into Malfoy's office.

"Well?" Draco prompted, eyebrows raised and lips twitching impatiently. "Potter, I presume?"

"Yes," Albus replied breathlessly. At least he had the sense to remember his own name. "Albus, actually." He offered his hand, but Draco looked less likely to accept the handshake than spit on it, so Albus withdrew it an awkward moment later.

"Well, Mr. Potter, you are about as talented a conversationalist as your father."

Albus's jaw dropped a little as he watched Draco turn away and move to the nearby bookshelves to return his hardback he'd carried into the office with him. Despite being sorted into Slytherin and having come into various scuffles with students from other houses, Albus had never been insulted outright like that. He couldn't even remember the last time anybody had spoken ill of his father in the way the negativity seemed to drawl off Draco's lips eagerly, like Draco had been waiting years to tell one of the Potter children how much he loathed their father.

" _My father_ ," Albus began, heat crawling into his cheeks as he stood his ground and clutched his satchel strap tighter in his fist, "Is the greatest wizard of this century."

Draco turned to face Albus again, a sneer on his thin lips. "Well, whatever our disagreements on the subject of the infamous Harry Potter, you certainly did not come here to talk to me about him, now did you?" Draco's lips twitched in the only sign of irritation Albus could physically see.

"No," Albus said. "I actually… Well, I write for the _Hogwarts' Ledger_ , and I was hoping you might grant me an interview." When Draco didn't immediately answer, Albus shifted uncomfortably and toyed with the strap of his satchel again, twisting it in his sweaty grip. "It's…it's the school paper," he said, a little louder this time, to the point that putting forth the effort made his voice crack. "I actually started the Ledger in my first year—I thought it would be nice for students to know what's going on at Hogwarts, to keep everyone, you know, informed." He cleared his throat and averted his gaze; Draco's silence was unnerving and annoying. "Anyway, I'd understand if you don't want to, but I'd appreciate a response at the very least."

"You ought to learn to respect your elders, Mr. Potter," Draco said stiffly. When Albus looked up to respond, he found that Draco had drawn close to him. "I did not hear even one 'Sir' in there, nor a 'please'." Tsking, Draco took Albus's chin and tipped his handsome face into the light. "Didn't your legendary father teach you manners, boy?"

Dark green eyes widening, Albus couldn't help but stutter in his sudden panic. Draco's words made him feel both humiliated and suddenly aroused. Either emotion would have been easy to handle alone, but as they crashed together in Albus's chest, he felt his knees ready to buckle under the desire to let Draco speak to him like that for the remainder of his days. Some part of Albus liked it, some part of him got off on the strange, exhilarating humiliation of it all.

"But I suppose, despite your awful social etiquette, that I could be persuaded," Draco added after a moment, perusing Albus's features in the dim lighting of his small office. Releasing Albus from his grip, he returned to his desk and summoned another book from the shelves as he took a seat. "I presume you want to know _everything_ , including the dark times back when I was a Death Eater? Including everything with Voldemort?"

Breathless with excitement, Albus nodded. Swallowing behind dry lips and a sticky throat, he stepped forward, bright eyes a little too wide in his interest. "Yes, sir. Everything. I want to know everything."

Draco nodded slowly. "And I assume you're taking Potions with me this term, Mr. Potter?"

Albus's shoulders rose expectantly and then fell in a slump as he nervously shook his head. "I…forgot to signup."

"Well, what luck," Draco drawled. "As I just happen to have an extra seat." Waving Albus away, Draco returned to settling his things. "I expect to see you at the first lesson, bright and early tomorrow morning. Afterwards, we can discuss the terms of this interview you are so desperately craving. Have a good day, Mr. Potter."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Albus tried to tell himself it was all about getting the interview, about telling Hogwarts the story of a man who had once struggled as a Death Eater under the darkest wizard of their age but had managed to turn his life around and grow to be an experienced Potions Master and founder of the Experimental Potions for the Treatment of Magical Diseases at the Ministry. But even Albus knew there was more to his strange fascination with Draco Malfoy—it had been that way ever since Albus had met Scorpius. Though they weren't best mates, they had both spent one or two nights piss-faced in the Slytherin Common Room, talking just for the sake of drowning out the silence. The stories Scorpius spun of his father, of Draco's exploits under Voldemort and his forced compliance to become a Death Eater were the things Albus had always wanted to hear about the war, the things his own father always left out when he answered Albus's questions.

Harry always answered in the same stiff way, possibly because Albus's questions grew more and more probing and grim. But Albus wasn't interested in the fact that the war was hard on everyone and that people died—those were the things already written in the history books. No, Albus wanted to know how Voldemort rose to power so fluidly. He wanted the details about what he did to his prisoners, what he did while the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix were searching for him. How did he attain human form again? How was it possible that nobody besides a scrawny teenaged boy could best him? How did he even manage to gain admittance into Hogwarts?

Albus had a wonderful and nauseating feeling he could get Draco Malfoy to tell him. It was, in fact, all Albus could think of when he attempted to sleep his first evening as a Sixth Year at Hogwarts.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Albus's first lesson under Draco was an atrocious reminder of why he had no business mixing Potions and would never excel in the subject. After the entire classroom was smothered in dark purple clouds of noxious gasses and had to be cleared due to his error, it seemed Draco knew it as well.

Draco drew Albus into his office as he bade the rest of the class to leave for the remainder of the day.

"I expect four inches of parchment on the effects of adding the wrong measurements of fluxweed into Invigoration Draughts by the next lesson."

The groans of the students' dismay echoed through the hallways as they exited the Potions classroom and Albus hung back, watching as Draco began sweeping his wand through the smoke, clearing the dark plumes in waves. Albus coughed as he retrieved his own wand and moved out into the smoke beside Draco, mimicking the way he cleaned it up to attempt to help. Draco glanced sidelong at him and reached out, straightening Albus's wrist.

"Like that," Draco said, nodding. "I would have assumed you'd know how to fix your own messes at your age, Mr. Potter."

Albus rolled his eyes and bit back a response that would have been highly inappropriate. Finally getting the hang of the magic, he broke away from Draco and continued to clear the classroom of the putrid smoke in the opposite direction entirely. Once they had both managed to clear the room, Albus pocketed his wand and glanced at the door. He was unbearably sweaty and was sure he looked worse for the wear and smelled like a wet dog from the stench of the potion—it would have been nice to go back to his dormitory and change clothes, spray some cologne or even take a quick shower, and then return to interview Draco for the article. But he half suspected Draco wouldn't let him come back if he left, and at the very least they were alone, so it would be easier to ask the kinds of questions Albus needed to ask.

"Now, if you are quite done destroying the Potions classroom on your first day under my tutelage," Draco drawled, a sneer on his fair, pointed features, "I think perhaps we should discuss the terms of your little interview."

"I would like that," Albus said, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice, figuring the more excited he was about getting answers the less Draco would be willing to share with him just out of spite. "Your office, sir?"

Draco waved his hand towards it with a nod and the two of them made themselves comfortable. Draco removed his robes, down to his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and slacks. Albus took the hint and removed his own robes, though he felt somewhat silly disrobing in his professor's quarters. Then again, he had had tea with Hagrid several times after curfew hours, so what was the difference, really? Informal was informal.

Setting his satchel down beside the chair, he knelt to retrieve a scroll and quill from it and then turned to find Draco's eyes on him. The look in them was unlike anything Albus had ever seen before, and it caused a ripple of pleasure to pulse through his body. As the tremor ran through him, he gripped the quill and parchment as if they would give him the necessary strength to stand upright.

"So," Albus began quietly, "Sir—Professor. Shall I ask you some questions now?"

"I suppose," Draco answered, still staring at him in the same unnerving way that made Albus's skin tingle. "But there is just one matter left unresolved." Before Albus could ask what it was, Draco answered it for him: "Repayment. You didn't assume I would give such a personal interview without asking something in return, did you?"

"What did you have in mind, Professor?" Albus swallowed around the lump in his throat, hoping against hope that Draco didn't want him back in his Potions class again. He was afraid next time he might truly destroy the classroom with his fumbling fingers and shoddy potions-work.

"Quite simple, really," Draco drawled. "I am in need of an assistant in my classroom. Someone to clean the cauldrons after the first years have destroyed them, someone to assist in organizing the ingredients, someone to brew a warm cup of a tea for me between classes."

Albus gaped. "You can't be serious, Professor—not after I nearly obliterated your classroom. I'm a mess at Potions; I'd be the worst assistant."

Draco shrugged and looked away. "Either you become my new assistant and continue taking Potions to better master the skills you are so desperate to avoid, or this interview of yours will never see print." Turning his dull gaze back to Albus, Draco sneered. "Imagine it, Potter: _you_ will be the first and only wizard to have asked such questions of me and received honest replies. Others from the _Daily Prophet_ , _Witch Weekly_ , and all the other rags have been crawling all over me to get my stories, but I've never told them what they want—what _you_ want." Draco leaned forward across the table and despite himself Albus did too, eyes shining with desire. "Wouldn't you just love to be the first, Mr. Potter? Wouldn't cleaning a few cauldrons and learning to make some interesting potions be an easy fee to repay such a reward?"

Albus had to admit, Potions was sounding better and better now that he was imagining himself as the only wizard to have successfully achieved an interview with Draco Malfoy. Suddenly, it was all Albus could think about—all the attention, the infamy that came not from his surname or the names of other famous wizards but from his own actions and hard work. He could already see the surprise on his father's face when he read the article, could see the jealousy in James's eyes when he heard that his little brother had excelled where he hadn't. Everybody thought he'd been sorted into Slytherin on accident, but only Albus knew that these kinds of desires for attention and infamy were the very reasons the Sorting Hat had been right all along.

Albus's tongue swiped over his dry mouth to wet his lips, as he unconsciously stared at Draco, admiring the handsome, strong lines of his face. "I think that's a very fair trade, Professor."

"Perfect," Draco said, leaning back in his chair. Waving his wand towards the office door, he let it slam shut and several bolts slithered into place. "For privacy. Now, you have your parchment ready?"

Albus fumbled for a moment with his inkwell, settling it on Draco's desk so he could dip his quill's tip into it. Reaching for his wand, he tapped the feathers on the quill and it shook for a moment before it levitated out of his fingertips and began scrawling notes to the parchment on its own.

Draco glanced sidelong at the self-animated quill and parchment and his eyes narrowed a little. "There is one other rule that we should discuss before I begin," he said.

"Anything, sir."

"If I say that a subject is off-limits or I answer a question but bar you from publishing it, I expect that my privacy will be respected. Is that clear?"

Albus nodded. "Anything you tell me not to publish won't be published."

"Let's begin then."

Albus started with simple questions: Draco's full name, age, family history, marriage, career, professional associations. These were things everyone knew, things even Albus knew mostly, but they were important details that were necessary to set the scene. When Albus moved on to more personal questions, his palms began to sweat; he rubbed them distractedly against his thighs.

"When did you become a Death Eater?"

Draco's jaw tightened. It was clear he hadn't expected the questions to be so serious so quickly. But Albus was somewhat impatient for the 'good parts', the things he had always wanted to know, the things his own father refused to tell him, the things even the history books omitted.

"I'm sure your father has told you all about my family," Draco replied, loosening his collar a bit more as he summoned a fresh cup of a tea. "My father, Lucius, had been a Death Eater in Voldemort's first uprising. Because he thought Voldemort would give him everything he desired, my father became Voldemort's second in command more or less for selfish reasons. If there was one person Voldemort trusted during the initial years of the first uprising, it was my father. I would have said, when I was a boy your age, that they were friends, but now I know better—Voldemort had no friends, only imbecile followers too stupid to know better."

While Draco collected himself and blew the steam from his teacup, Albus shifted in his chair, hooked already on the responses Albus knew no one had yet been able to extract from this man.

"Anyway, I loved my father of course. He was a brilliant wizard, a powerful man of the world. When I was a young boy, there was nothing I wished more than to be the mirror image of him. I styled my clothes in the way he did, slicked my hair back because I saw pictures of when he was my age and had done the same, and adopted his attitudes against Half-Breeds, Muggles, and Mudbloods."

Albus twitched at the use of the word 'Mudblood', and Draco sneered in response.

"Oh, don't think me still so prejudiced, Mr. Potter. I can assure you, I no longer feel any hatred towards…Muggle-borns, shall we say?"

"That's better," Albus said stiffly, unable to keep the grimace from his face. It wasn't every day someone said Mudblood like it was just part of the natural flow of conversation. His Aunt Hermione fought daily in the Ministry for the rights of all witches, wizards, and magical creatures of every kind; he knew better than most what prejudice looked like.

"But when I was young," Draco went on, "I often spoke ill of anyone who was not a Pureblood." Draco held up a hand to silence Albus's further protests or arguments. "If you are going to tell me how wrong I was, I can save you the time—those days were quite different, you understand. My father had a very persistent viewpoint, one that I was raised to believe was the law. Even my mother, Narcissa, who was quiet on the subject for the most part could be overheard commenting on the blood status of just about any witch or wizard I knew entering Hogwarts. 'Don't befriend that one,' she'd tell me before school started, 'But you would do well to become friendly with her'. I learned that someone's blood status was more important than any other single thing about a person. That is, in fact, why your father and I are not—and have never been—friends."

Albus shifted again. "Why's that, Professor? My father wasn't Muggle-born. His father was a wizard, and his grandfather, and—"

"But your grandmother was Muggle-born," Draco interrupted. He lifted the teacup to his lips and drank quietly, then settled the teacup to the saucer with a sigh. "It didn't matter to my family how talented a family was—if they weren't Pureblood down to the last seven generations, there was no use for them in Voldemort's time." When their eyes met, Draco grinned. "You are undoubtedly angry at this interpretation, but you are quite lucky, Mr. Potter, that your father did what he did for the world or you would be living in a similarly-jaded time where your family would still be considered second-rate by blood status elitists. They still exist of course, but it has now become the norm to ignore them."

"You haven't answered my question," Albus said tersely, trying to ignore the angry feeling that overwhelmed him when he thought of the prejudice in the world. "How did you become a Death Eater?"

"Ah, yes," Draco said, lowering his gaze. Fingers cradled his teacup and he gave it a light push, swirling the tea leaves and water within. "So as I said, I wanted very much to be in the image of my father." Draco's earlier grin faded quite quickly, an ugly frown on his otherwise handsome, pale features. "I was provided the perfect chance in my Sixth Year. Just before, during the summer after my father was locked away in Azkaban for his crimes. Your father put him there, actually, and I was livid at the world, ready to prove my worth to defend my family's good name." Another swirl of the tea before Draco lowered the cup with a clang to the saucer again. "Voldemort was also livid and impatient for his chance to regain power. He knew his time was limited if he didn't move fast, because there were still people who thought your father was an insane dupe, a mere puppet for Dumbledore's aging dementia, and that wouldn't last forever."

Albus's throat was dry now too, and he found his gaze drawing to Draco's teacup. Swallowing beyond the desire to drink from it or remove himself to get a cup as well, he merely quelled the desire and continued to listen with baited breath.

"Voldemort gave my family an ultimatum," Draco continued quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Without Lucius, we were useless to his cause, but instead of agreeing and making our silent way out of his trap, I stood up and said that there was plenty we could offer him. Unfortunately, he seemed to agree." Draco's fingers trembled as he removed them from the teacup and lifted the sleeve of his shirt on his left forearm. An aged tattoo in the shape of a skull and snake puckered and shrivelled the flesh there into a grotesque scar that wound in and out of otherwise flawless, porcelain skin. "I was told that it was my duty to assist Voldemort in one of his greatest tasks, and if I failed, that he would slit my mother's throat in front of me and force me to do the same to my father."

The creak of Albus's chair gave him away as he leaned in to try and get a better look at the disgusting remnants of Draco's Dark Mark tattoo. Draco looked up, aware of Albus's interest, and held out his arm for Albus to study.

"I was given this," Draco whispered, "And I was told that I could not fail in this task. I was taken into a small room, stripped naked, and my own Aunt held me still while Voldemort pressed his wand into my flesh and administered the tattoo that you see now."

"Did it hurt?" Albus asked, unable to help himself as he reached out and drew his fingers across the lumps and sinews of marred flesh.

"It was the worst pain I have ever known in my life," Draco said simply, eyes on Albus as fingers continued to wind across the pale skin of his arm. "The tattoo took sixty seconds to administer, and Voldemort's wand had to completely penetrate the skin of my arm. It was as if thousands of needles had snaked their way under the flesh and began sewing thread, blood, and muscle into my arm. I couldn't move it for a week."

Albus finally attempted to remove his hand, only because of the look Draco was giving him. Before he could fully remove his fingers from Draco's skin, Draco reached out and took Albus's hand at his wrist, pulling him half over the desk in a sudden burst of strength that left Albus breathless. With his wand removed, Draco traced it over Albus's skin, following the veins from the pulse point at his wrist up to the juncture of his forearm and elbow, where the sensitive skin tingled at the touch.

"That's…horrible," Albus managed, shivering the more Draco's wand traced the flesh. "You were only sixteen…" The same age as Albus was now.

Draco nodded as he stared down at Albus's arm. "I was one of the youngest, my mother told me. She was horrified, of course, I could see the disgust in her eyes whenever she looked at me, but I told her everything would be all right, that as long as I followed Voldemort's orders, we could get father released from Azkaban, and we would be safe." Draco pressed the wand firmly into Albus's flesh until Albus winced. "I was naïve."

When Albus's skin started burning, he thought he was going mad, imagining the pain Draco must have been in during that tumultuous time, but then he realized that Draco's wand was emitting a painful, prickling heat that ebbed its way beneath Albus's skin until the skin began to sizzle and prick.

"Professor," he exhaled, trying to yank his arm away with a sudden panic that alarmed him. "Professor Malfoy, please! My arm!"

Draco looked up at him as if noticing him for the first time and slowly removed his wand tip from Albus's arm, where an angry red welt had already formed. Albus sank back into his seat with an exhale, trembling as he ran his fingers over the sensitive mark Draco had left in his wake.

"You are lucky, Mr. Potter," Draco said quietly, the sound of his voice bitter and subdued. "That is just a mere bruise, a burn that any salve from the infirmary can heal within a fortnight. This—" he gestured to his Mark with a growl, "—Will never go away, no matter how many times I wish it would. It is a mistake many young wizards make, to choose the wrong path for themselves in the hope of infamy or revenge. This is proof that weighing your decisions carefully, thinking them over until you are sure you can live with the outcome, is the right path."

Albus took a moment to let the story sink in, the sound of the quill still scrawling the end of Draco's story the only noise between them. Though his arm hurt, the burning had subsided and the redness of the irritated welt had already gone down. Stranger still, when Albus moved to make himself more comfortable in the chair, he felt the firm bulge of the beginnings of an erection pressing tight against his trousers. It was less embarrassing to know he had a hard-on in front of his professor than it was confusing as to what exactly had turned him on. And yet it was the same feeling, the same mix of confused arousal that he had felt the previous day when Draco had spoken ill of him and his father and he had allowed it.

His brows furrowed as he thought of something else then and cleared his throat to relieve some of the tension in the air. "Professor, what task did Voldemort give to you that was so important?"

For a moment, Draco said nothing, only stared at the quill blotting ink in preparation for his response. Then Draco laughed, the sound of it hollow as it released from his throat.

"It was simple, actually," Draco said. "And when I accepted it, I was thrilled. I told all my friends, boasted how I wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts after it was completed because there would be no point in droll studies. It was a trick, you see. You've read about the Death Eaters storming Hogwarts, I assume?"

Albus nodded. "None of the history books have ever said how it was done."

"That's because your father never told them, and he is one of a very select few individuals who know that it was my fault." Draco paused with a glance towards the still-moving quill. "What I am going to tell you next is not for publication, Mr. Potter. Is that clear? It is imperative that this not be written."

Again, Albus nodded, head bobbing pathetically, as words escaped him at the knowledge he would now be among those select individuals who knew this grand secret.

"Voldemort wanted to gain control of Hogwarts, and they discovered a possible way in a pair of vanishing cabinets, one which was located in Knockturn Alley and the other that was hidden in a secret room here at Hogwarts. I was given the task of mending the broken cabinet at Hogwarts to allow passage between the two."

Albus frowned, absently running his fingertips over the welt on his arm. "So you let them in?"

Draco smiled sadly. "You ask that question as if I had a choice at that point, Mr. Potter. Imagine that you were in my position: your father is in Azkaban, getting his soul sucked out on a daily basis by rabid Dementors, your mother can't bear to look at you or when she does is sobbing and tearing her hair out, and all the while you are being told that if you fail, they will all die anyway and so will you. Of course I wasn't happy about it once the reality sank in, but I had little choice to stop what I had started. So yes, I fixed the cabinet and allowed the Death Eaters passage into Hogwarts grounds. But that was only half of the task. The second part of it is the part that is most important that you keep to yourself. The thing Voldemort desired above all else at that time…do you know what that was, Mr. Potter?"

Albus swallowed behind the taste of sickness rising in his throat. "He wanted to kill my father."

A mirthless sneer curled the edges of Draco's thin lips. "How very like your father, to assume everything was about him. While Voldemort did want your father dead, he needed someone else to go before he could attain that prize."

Albus's brows knitted in confusion. "Dumbledore?" he asked quietly. "But I thought Severus Snape killed Headmaster Dumbledore?"

Draco's sneer faded quickly. "Severus was under an obligation to my mother at the time to assist me if I failed at my mission. But the main task I was told to undertake was indeed to kill Albus Dumbledore."

Albus was positively writhing in his seat by now, impatient to review the notes his quill was scrawling to put the pieces together and start the article. Just a few questions had already painted the most vivid picture he had ever seen. "But you couldn't do it," Albus breathed. "You couldn't kill him."

"No, I couldn't." Draco began to roll down his shirt sleeve, covering up the Dark Mark.

They sat in silence for a long time, Albus running over the responses Draco had offered him and Draco listening to the sound of the quill racing across the parchment. Then, Draco broke the silence with a soft spell that stopped the quill in its tracks. Both quill and parchment tumbled into Albus's lap, rolling themselves together.

"Sir?" Albus pressed, glancing from the quill and parchment to Draco.

"I think that is enough questioning for one evening, don't you?" Draco stood from behind the desk and stretched; Albus unabashedly stared at the strong, lean lines of his body. "Besides, I do believe you are my assistant now, and the cauldrons will need cleaning before my next class."

Stumbling out of his seat, Albus fumbled to check the time and his eyes widened. "Shit," he cursed, red-faced at the curse and at the time. "I missed my Defense class."

Draco grinned knowingly as he rounded the desk and clasped a hand on Albus's shoulder. "You should probably come around after classes tomorrow then for another round of questions. Perhaps in my private chambers? They are much more comfortable than my office."

Albus felt his cheeks burning uncomfortably, and with Draco's touch, he seemed to feel the welt on his arm ever more presently. "Tomorrow night then."

"But I do expect you here before lunch and after dinner every day to scrub the cauldrons and set my classroom in order, Mr. Potter," Draco said sternly. "Do remember our bargain. And take care to stop by the infirmary to put some salve on that."

Albus nodded and gathered his things as he retreated from Draco's office and moved into the classroom. The cauldrons were still steaming with potions, and Albus imagined he'd miss his entire lunch just getting the built-up gunk cleaned out. With a heavy sigh, he set his satchel and parchments down and gathered his wand, readying himself for the task at hand as he tried not to think about the war and Draco's dismal part in it.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Becoming Draco's assistant turned out to be one of the worst bargains Albus had ever made in his life. Besides cleaning the cauldrons twice daily and preparing Draco's tea every morning, there were other tasks that Draco set out for Albus that didn't seem altogether fair. For example, Albus was made to file the potions ingredients in Draco's private Potions stores. From what Albus could tell, the potions did not actually belong to Draco but seemed to have been in the large store for years, since a great deal of the jars were covered in cobwebs and others filled with mold or rotting gunk. Albus had a nagging feeling Draco was only making him organize the potions as some kind of revenge for the probing questions or perhaps as nothing more than spite.

Despite the atrocities Albus discovered in organizing something that had obviously not been touched in years, Albus found that it was worth his time. The more he worked for Draco and gained his confidence, the more questions he was allowed to ask about his studies at Hogwarts, about his time as a Death Eater, and eventually about Voldemort.

The first week, Albus learned that Draco was the one who was supposed to kill Dumbledore, that Draco had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts that night during the second uprising of Voldemort, and even that Draco and Harry had gotten into a physical scuffle that left Draco scarred for life. Draco had only too smugly removed his shirt to show Albus the aged white scars that ran from his shoulder down across his chest and to the curve of his torso. While Albus had been hard pressed to keep from moaning at the sight of Draco's exposed body, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the fact that it was his father who had done that to him. Harry had never once admitted to any violence like that, and even the history books said that Harry was famous for both never casting a Killing Curse and mainly using _Expelliarmus_ to bring down his enemies. Albus wondered how much of the stories Harry had told him were true and how much were toned down to either make Harry look better than he was or to downplay the real violence in the recollections.

Mostly, Albus just wished he could get his hands on a Pensieve and a crate full of his father's memories to learn the real things first-hand.

Still, at the second week as an assistant to Draco Malfoy, Albus started to feel like he was gaining the knowledge he so desperately desired. When he arrived late to Draco's private chambers one evening, Draco was already seated on the small couch near his fireplace, a tray of tea and cakes on the coffee table in front of him, clearly ready to go on with the tale.

"Sorry, Professor," Albus said, closing the door behind him and fumbling in his hurry to remove the quill, ink, and parchment from his satchel. "The first years really did a number on your cauldrons, so I missed dinner to—"

"It's all right, Mr. Potter," Draco drawled, waving Albus close. "No need to apologize. We have the rest of the evening before us, after all. Have a seat."

Albus smiled and settled his things behind the couch. Leaving his Slytherin robes on, Albus took a seat beside Draco and tapped his quill and parchment with his wand. As they levitated away from him and began filling in the gaps from their previous session, Albus took an offered cake and shoved it into his mouth, reaching for another.

"You've no idea how hungry I am, sir," Albus sputtered, mouth full of sweet cakes. "I skipped dinner to clean up, and it took ages, and I'd obviously rather be with you than at the Great Hall by myself for a late bite."

Draco chuckled. "You do quite remind me of your father now—no sense of manners, always in a rush, shoving a second cake into your mouth before you've had time to finish the first."

Albus rolled his eyes and made a point of swallowing before he responded. "I'll take that as a compliment, Professor." After dropping a cube of sugar into his tea, Albus picked it up to take a drink.

"I presume you think we are close enough now that you can simply partake in my foods without my permission to do so."

Halfway through a large gulp of tea, Albus choked a little in his haste to put the cup back down. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"

"I am quite sure you meant no harm." Draco grinned. "Please, feel free. Shall you ask me some questions again? Or is this a personal visit?"

Albus blinked, still trying to clear his throat from having nearly choked on the tea. His cheeks were feeling warm from embarrassment and the heat from the fireplace. "A personal visit, Professor?"

Draco studied him for a moment in silence, and the look in his eyes made Albus recoil into the cushions. They were sitting so close on the small sofa that Albus was even warmer because of Draco's body heat. The light of the fire against his pale skin warmed it, casting a faint pink glow to the white skin. Albus had always envied the porcelain texture of Scorpius's skin; it was one of those traits that was so rare, unique, individual. Albus was fair-skinned like the rest of his family, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose like James and Lily, glasses like his father, hair like his father, eyes like his father. Everything he was belonged to somebody else—it would have been amazing to be pale like the Malfoys, to have white-blond hair like Draco or light eyes like Scorpius.

"I was…sort of hoping to ask a few more questions, Sir," Albus added quickly, because the look in Draco's eyes was unnerving and his own thoughts were bound to give him away. Just sitting there in the dark beside Draco was enough to make Albus half-hard from wanting the impossible, the strange things he could not voice.

Draco sighed and tipped his head back, stretching his arms above his head lithely. "Of course. Please go on. Where did we leave off yesterday?"

"You told me about your Aunt Bellatrix locking you in your room as punishment for not killing Dumbledore…and about Severus Snape helping you get away after that night."

Draco reached for his own teacup for a sip and nodded thoughtfully. "Ah yes. So I assume you are going to ask more about what happened after that. More about what I did during what would have been my Seventh Year at Hogwarts."

"You didn't return to Hogwarts, then?" Albus pressed, as the quill started taking notes again.

"Oh, I did return actually, but it was nothing of a school year at all. My days were mostly spent sitting in corners, trying to avoid getting caught writing owls to my mother. I returned home as often as I could, but it was nearly impossible to remain there either, as Voldemort had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor. It wasn't even that he enjoyed what we could have offered him there—it was more to keep an eye on my father and to punish my family for what he perceived as a lack of willpower and a failure to all Death Eaters."

Draco stood from the couch with some difficulty—Albus noticed his fingers were once again trembling, and for a moment Albus wondered if he should put away the quill and parchment and forget about the interview for the evening. Then, as Draco retrieved a large green glass bottle from the top shelf on the far wall, he began speaking again, so Albus said nothing.

"So this is something I'm sure you've never read in the history books, but Voldemort tortured, maimed, killed, and abused Muggle-borns and Muggle-lovers for fun while he stayed at the Manor. Well, I don't actually think he took any pleasure in any of the acts, to be perfectly honest, but he certainly loved the reactions he could garnish from my family." 

Draco paused, slopping some whiskey onto the floor as he trembled pouring it into the glass. Albus jumped to his feet at the sight and steadied the bottle for Draco while he poured. His calloused, worn fingers brushed against Draco's smooth ones, and Albus looked up in time to meet steel-gray eyes that bored into his soul.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," he said quietly, nodding. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, sir," Albus said, more out of fear that saying no would be rude than out of actually wanting any. When he raised his glass to his nose, it smelled like Muggle paint thinner.

"Firewhiskey."

Draco's explanation made sense, but Albus said nothing as he resumed his previous position on the couch, cradling the cup between both hands as he waited for Draco to resume his story. It took a moment for Draco to regain composure, but after a shot of Firewhiskey and a few breaths, he went on.

"There was this Muggle Studies professor who used to teach here at Hogwarts." Draco swallowed, eyes trained somewhere beyond the rim of his glass. "Charity Burbage." The sound of his voice was hoarse and sluggish, as if just saying the name caused him great pain. "She wrote some article or another regarding the impudence of Purebloods to think that they would eradicate Muggle-borns, and she was well-known for her stance on all of this of course. I had never really known her, not until they brought her to the Manor." Draco poured himself another shot of whiskey and downed it before returning to sit beside Albus again. "She was a prisoner at the Manor for barely a week before Voldemort started using her as an example, slashing her chest and throat in front of us while we attempted to eat dinner. And then, during one of the Death Eater meetings, he hung her above the dining table while she begged for her life. He grew tired of her whining and silenced her with the Killing Curse."

Staring at Draco became almost unbearable as he went on, so Albus looked down into the whiskey instead, his own fingers trembling. The quill to his right scrawled the notes of Draco's tale furiously.

"That wasn't the worst of it," Draco went on dully. "As she hung lifelessly above our heads, Voldemort summoned his snake and…" With a thick swallow, Draco waved his hand as if to pass over the worst of his story.

"He fed her to the snake?" Albus gasped, his heart absolutely racing at the thought of it.

"Yes. Tell me, Albus, have you ever seen a snake eat something bigger than itself? Imagine it for a moment: you are just a boy, caught in a horrible situation, with a dead woman hanging above your head. Your father is an escapee from Azkaban, certain to be sentenced to death, and your mother is incapable and unable to assist in anything more than wretched, useless sobbing. And when the woman's hunched body is lowered to the table, a giant snake coils around her and begins to devour her, starting with the head and working her way down over the lumps of breasts, the bones of her hips, the sinew of muscles in her thighs. This was not a quick swallow, either. I was made to watch the entire thing, or as much as I dared before I passed out. Since it takes a normal snake hours just to eat a simple cat or small cub, I imagine this lasted much longer. I am quite sure my mother had nightmares about it until the day she died."

"Do you?" Albus breathed, leaning in so close to Draco that their knees nearly touched on the small sofa they shared. "Have nightmares about it, I mean?"

Draco sneered in disgust. "Wouldn't you, Mr. Potter?"

Albus knew it was a stupid question, but he couldn't help but ask it. Painful as it seemed to be to Draco, Albus had come for these details, the worst aspects of the war, the things no one could speak of. To stifle further ridiculous questions, Albus downed the whiskey in his glass with a cough as it burned going down. He didn't even notice when it refilled itself again.

"That was the most benevolent act of mercy Voldemort ever bestowed," Draco added a moment later. "To kill someone, to release their tortured soul, to let them die. But it was also an example to my family of what would happen to us, should we betray or let him down again." Draco sighed. "Next question, Potter. These Voldemort-centric ones are getting old, and I'm sure it is boring you."

"It's not boring, sir!" Albus said, a little too quickly. Flushed with embarrassment, he avoided Draco's gaze. "I want the whole story, everything that you're willing to tell me."

"Another question then, a change of pace."

"What did you do?" Albus asked quietly after a moment's thought. "While Voldemort was living at the Manor, I mean. How did you occupy your time with him there? With all the Death Eaters?"

"My parents and I tried very hard to keep our distance, but my insane Aunt Bellatrix saw to it that I was involved in nearly every torture imaginable. And at times, she would amuse herself with tormenting me in private." Draco glanced to the ever-moving quill. "This is another one of those things that must not be printed, do you understand?"

Shifting in his seat, Albus suddenly felt very warm and very dizzy. He had unconsciously tipped more of the sweet, warm alcohol between his lips to drink, and now the room was swaying.

"Do you understand, Mr. Potter?"

Albus managed to nod, eyelids heavy as he tried to focus on Draco, who seemed very far away now.

"Not even my mother knows what happened when Bellatrix dragged me off to the cells beneath Malfoy Manor. I was too embarrassed to tell her at the time and too worried Voldemort would find out I had somehow betrayed him in telling her without his permission. There were times she would strip me until I stood nude before her and Voldemort, and she would practice the Cruciatus Curse on me or Voldemort would place me under the Imperius Curse just to see how well I would attempt to fight against it. Once, in between whips of the Cruciatus, he made me touch myself, pleasure myself, while he watched, while my Aunt sniggered in the corner."

Albus couldn't help the rouge of colour that suddenly flushed on his pale cheeks at the thought of Draco, bent to someone's whim, nude and panting, prick hard, body taut. The moment the image penetrated his mind, Albus couldn't get rid of it no matter how hard he tried. It was horrible, everything Draco had to go through, and yet Albus was turned on by the pain of it, by the release he imagined on Draco's face when he came, even against his will.

"Do you understand that kind of pain, Mr. Potter?" Draco's voice was suddenly very close to his ear, and Albus felt his eyelids close of their own accord as a moan slipped out of his lips and into the stifling air between them. "Have you ever been embarrassed in such a way, with your body on display and your emotions laid bare for strangers? Your pain their twisted pleasure?"

"No," Albus ground out, desperate to keep his voice from cracking but failing somewhat miserably as his throat was dry.

"You've never so much as scraped your knee without someone rushing to your rescue, isn't that right?" Draco's lips made contact with the taut flesh of Albus's throat, and Albus gasped tightly. "Your pain was nothing more than a soft yelp in the wind, but you've yet to experience the howl of true, gruesome agony."

"Never," Albus exhaled. His head felt heavy, so he let it loll to the side, exposing the juncture of his throat and shoulder for Draco, who took full advantage of the skin to suckle there.

The glass of Firewhiskey fell from Albus's limp fingers with a clank to the stone floors, and Albus released another moan as he felt Draco's teeth sink into the taut flesh.

"Is there something about these stories that draws you to them night after night in my chambers? Or is it that you enjoy spending your time here, alone with me?"

Draco's fingers made slow work of Albus's robes, drawing the thick material down off his shoulder, down the upper slope of his back, and Albus swayed dizzily in response, unable to so much as move his arms or legs to protest. Even his words became slurred and unintelligible. "I…no, I'm not—I mean, I didn't—"

"Tell me the truth about your intentions here, Mr. Potter," Draco went on, as if ignoring Albus's soft protests. "Are you truly after the interview of the century from me, or are you here for selfish reasons? To get off on these gruesome stories and my thoughts on them?"

Albus struggled in earnest as Draco pulled his robes off his body and untucked his jumper and shirts from his trousers, but it seemed the more he struggled the worse the effects of the Firewhiskey were on his system and the less he could truly manage to move. Despite everything, he was desperately hard and panting helplessly the further Draco went, the more clothes that were removed. When Draco's bare fingers touched the skin of his stomach and sides, Albus allowed his body to sink until his back was flush with the armrest. Draco tipped his body over it, Albus's head lolling limply and mouth agape as Draco's palms ran flatly up over the arch of his ribs, shoving the material of his clothes up to bunch at his throat as he did so.

"I saw your reaction when I pressed my wand to your arm and let it burn your skin," Draco growled possessively. "Do you think I didn't notice you didn't bother putting any medication on it? Or all the times while I told stories of the Dark Mark and you sat there rubbing it like some sick child with a rash?"

Albus tried to shake his head, to explain himself, but then Draco's hands were on his hips, at the fly of his trousers, and then Albus was naked from the waist down, and he knew he was half-hard from the way Draco was talking to him, from the way Draco handled him, so he just let out a groan instead when Draco's fist closed around his cock and began to stroke it slowly from base to head.

"Is this how you wanted me to take you? You were too weak to tell me yourself that you fancied me, that you wanted me to take you in exactly this way, bent over the sofa like a common whore. I think you like it when I abuse you, just like you enjoyed it when my wand burned through your skin. Tell me you liked it, Potter. I want to hear you say it."

To Albus's utter surprise and horror, he uttered the words Draco was so desperate to hear: "Yes, sir. I've wanted this since I first saw you. I bought these glasses just to impress you—I thought you'd think I was something unique, that you'd appreciate the money spent on them. When you burned my skin, I wanted you to keep on burning it until my skin peeled off. And I get off hearing your stories, the torture and the torment of your life, of Voldemort's wrath, and I need you. On me, in me, everywhere, sir, _please_."

Albus's limp body arched dully off the sofa as Draco lifted him, but when their mouths met for a deep kiss, Albus could not participate. His jaw remained slack as Draco's tongue slithered into his mouth and claimed every crevice. Draco's fist continued to work Albus's cock into full hardness, and Albus whimpered pathetically when Draco removed himself from the sofa and began to undress.

"So you liked the pain," Draco drawled. "And you like listening to my stories of torture, the way my Aunt abused me, the death of innocents. You are a sick little boy, Potter, and these are dangerous things which arouse you."

Draco summoned his wand and pressed it into the welt that still shone as a light bruise on Albus's forearm. The same heat that Draco had previously allowed to burn Albus before boiled against his skin again, and Albus cried out, body twitching the longer Draco held his wand still against him.

"Look at you, just like the lot of them, getting off on the pain of others, aroused in your own misery. Do you even understand your desire, why you enjoy the dark side of pleasure sliced with pain?"

Albus screamed but somehow his voice shrivelled away in his throat. Nothing more than an abused, broken doll, Albus gasped and writhed and twitched until his spasms forced his orgasm to rip through his body.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

When Albus awoke, it was late, and his body was caked with a thick sheen of sweat, which had cooled somewhat and made him shiver. A pale sheet had been thrown haphazardly over his lower half, and he was curled up awkwardly in a ball against the armrest of Draco's sofa.

Unfurling his body slowly, Albus's stiff limbs responded with angry stabs of pain. When he tried to stand, he found that he was unable; instead, he tumbled numbly to the floor with a thud.

Panic laced through his thoughts as he tried to remember how he'd gotten to Draco's chambers and why his fly was undone and why there was dried come on his stomach and sweat at the back of his neck and his eyes burned from the swell of tears. Despite his best efforts, Albus could neither move nor recall the reason he'd wound up as he was. The only thing he remembered was the sound of a quill scratching against parchment.

Somewhere far away, Albus could hear someone coming his way, racing quickly to his side. Then, a warm hand combed through his hair and gave it a firm yank. Albus winced, staring up into the overwhelming silver stare of Draco Malfoy.

"Drink this," Draco commanded, lifting a goblet to Albus's lips.

Despite himself, Albus was parched and thirsty and even though he was afraid to drink whatever Draco was offering, he was too desperate to say no. Part of Albus wondered if he even had any ability to say no and mean it.

After the first few drops touched his lips, he suddenly felt more energized and the muscles in his legs twitched. Jerking his face free of Draco's grip, he clasped the goblet himself and tipped it back. Some of the dark brown liquid drizzled down over his chin and throat as he slurped greedily and swallowed the lot of it.

"There, now, that's better," Draco said.

Without so much as a response, Albus wound back and let his fist connect with Draco's jaw. He wasn't exactly the strongest boy for his age, nor had he ever punched someone before, but he managed to knock Draco off his feet, sending his professor stumbling back into the wall.

"What the bloody fuck am I doing here?" Albus growled, fumbling to get to his feet and zip up at the same time. "What did you do to me, you bastard?" Still weak-kneed, Albus stumbled back into the couch and fell into it despite his best effort to remain standing.

Blood was oozing thickly out of Draco's nose and when Albus looked down at his fist, the knuckles were red and swollen. The sizzle of pain sank in, and Albus groaned.

"You were interviewing me for your little paper," Draco snapped, pushing himself back up to his feet as blood ribboned grotesquely down over his upper lip. "Then you had a little too much to drink—lightweight, aren't you, boy?"

Albus growled in warning, even though he didn't think he could stand again even if he wanted to. "What did you put in my drink?"

To his surprise, a sneer curled Draco's lips. "Smart boy. Two ingredients, Mr. Potter, both of which you would know if you were more adept at Potions."

"Verituserum," Albus said firmly, already understanding half the story as his memories began swimming back through his head.

"Good, good," Draco drawled, wiping his nose with his fingers, smearing the blood all over his upper lip and into the crease between the upper and lower tier. "Perhaps there is some hope for you yet. And the second?"

"A memory potion," Albus guessed. "Or something to make me infatuated with you."

Draco chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh, my dear, Mr. Potter. So righteous, just like your father, thinking the world is always wronging you. No, there is no love potion or anything of the like, just a mild sedative which caused an unforeseen reaction in conjunction with the Veritaserum."

"An unforeseen reaction?" Albus screamed, voice cracking. "You tried to rape me!"

Draco was close to him now, standing tall and broad-shouldered before the sofa. Albus sank further into it, gathering all his strength in case he needed to make a run for the door.

"The sedative shouldn't have caused you such pain, Mr. Potter, and to be perfectly honest, I had thought you would enjoy the loss of control."

"Why would you ever think such a thing?"

"Your reactions to my stories, to the burn on your arm—you are a masochist, Mr. Potter, and I think you are aroused by the pain and the abuse. But please, do tell me if I'm wrong."

Albus gritted his teeth. "You're wrong."

"There is one simple question you neglected to ask during our little interviews," Draco explained casually, reaching out to draw one fingernail over Albus's dry lips, which parted despite the fact that he wanted to gnash and gnaw Draco's finger off. "Did your father ever tell you that I am an accomplished Occlumens and Legilimens?" The look on Albus's face said it all, and Draco chuckled again darkly. "Every time you met my eyes, every thought you were thinking was so clearly displayed I did not truthfully even need magic to tell you were aroused by what I was doing to you. I was merely offering you the chance to allow it to happen."

Albus's mouth bobbed open as he tried to concentrate his thoughts into coherence. Of course he didn't like being hurt and punished; what sort of a person would be aroused by such things? And Draco's stories…

"You're wrong," Albus said tersely. "You don't know what I want, what I like—you don't even know me."

Draco watched Albus for a moment in silence, his response a single exhalation and the tightening of his jaw. They stared at one another for a long time, Albus trying not to think of how aroused he must have been, how pathetic it was that such things got him hard, about Draco's fist pumping his cock until he came and passed out from the effort.

Then, suddenly, Draco was upon him. One hand covered the scream fresh on Albus's lips and another ripped at his shirt until Albus's hands were trapped behind his back. With a whispered spell cast from Draco's lips that Albus didn't recognize, Albus realized dully that he couldn't move his arms. Lashing out with his legs, he managed to land a good kick to Draco's shin. When Draco hissed and drew away from the couch, Albus tried to make a run for the door. Stumbling, he fell face-first to the floor. His glasses clattered several feet away, leaving him blind. With his hands behind his back, he was unable to gain leverage to push himself back up to his feet.

Attempting to crawl forward, he was stopped by the weight of Draco's knee, which dug in between his thighs firmly from behind and rubbed right against his balls. In his haste and desperate crawling, his trousers had slipped down further, exposing the crack of his ass, which Draco's fingers drew along softly.

The single sensation made Albus gasp. As Draco held Albus's shoulders down with one hand and worked his other hand down his trousers from behind, Albus cried out, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes.

And then, warmth flowed over him. Slick warmth, crawling deep inside his ass, rushing through him like a flood released from a dam. Arching in pleasure, Albus mouthed at the dirty carpet beneath his lips and bit into the soft coils to keep from sobbing.

To his utter horror, he was rock hard from just that slick spell, which lubricated him inside and out. Lamely, he writhed against the carpet, rubbing his prick to the floor in desperation to get more friction.

Draco yanked Albus's trousers off a moment later. Laying barely clothed, face-down on Draco's floor, Albus settled as the sound of his own breathing and Draco's became the only sounds in the small room.

"Please," he whispered, begging as tears leaked out of his eyes. "Please, Professor."

"Please, what, Potter?" Draco asked, his voice oddly soft and cautious, no trace of malice or degradation. It surprised Albus so much that he could barely respond.

"Please…please I need release," Albus hissed, shuddering as humiliation washed over him. "I…I do like it. I love it. I want to come. I need it. Please, sir."

A groan released from Draco's lips, so softly Albus almost missed it over the frantic sounds of his own panting gasps. And then, Draco had settled down over him, his hard prick pressing against Albus's spine.

"You must do something for me, first," Draco whispered.

Albus shifted uncomfortably with a growl. Hadn't he done enough for Draco already? What more could he possibly give the man?

"I want you to lay perfectly still. When I fuck you, you are not to utter a single word or move a single muscle. I want you to remain motionless while I have my way with you, while I shove into you and spill myself. And then, I will flip you over, and I promise to please you in just the way you need. Is that clear?"

Albus shivered as Draco's fingers combed affectionately through his hair. He nodded, but in case Draco couldn't tell, he whispered his answer as well: "Yes."

"One more thing," Draco whispered into the shell of Albus's ear, causing him to shudder. When Albus didn't hear a response, he thought perhaps Draco had lost his nerve, but then a cold spell washed over him, bathing his body in ice and rendering him physically unable to move even if he wanted to. When he tried to wiggle a finger, it took so much effort it left him breathless. Even breathing became difficult, and he swore the beating of his heart slowed down as well.

But when Draco was inside him, none of that mattered. Though Albus wished he could move, so that he could writhe and arch and shove back into Draco, it was almost more arousing to know that he couldn't move, that his cold body was only of use to Draco on his own terms. The embarrassing realization, that he did in fact get off on losing control, made Albus's eyes roll in pleasure as Draco fucked him.

And when Draco was done and the spell lifted, Draco's promise of giving Albus exactly what he needed came true. Draco jerked Albus until his cock exploded into Draco's fist, which was a humiliating five minutes after the first stroke against his erection.

As he came down from his orgasm, Albus felt the impromptu bonds around his wrists loosen and release; slowly, the spell lifted as well. Rolling over, he pushed himself to sit up carefully, feeling Draco's come slither down his spine and into the crack of his ass.

Draco helped him to his feet and assisted in getting his trousers back on properly. Albus couldn't bear to meet his eye and excused himself as soon as he was able to walk out of the room, fumbling to find his way in the darkness and praying he could make it to his room before he collapsed.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Every evening now it was routine—Albus met Draco after dinner, after scrubbing the cauldrons clean for him, and they talked. Draco told Albus everything he wanted to know, every detail about the war and about Voldemort, and even the things Albus feared most—the mistakes made by his father.

And when the quill had scrawled the last words of the evening, Draco pressed Albus into the couch and cast his spell, turning Albus's blood cold. Albus learned to be patient, to wait for the moments when Draco released him from his frigid, immobilized state and gave him whatever he desired.

After each fuck, Albus understood himself less than before. All he knew was his desires were dark, and the only way to find relief was through Draco's strange manipulation.


End file.
